


Mouth so Sweet

by silenceinmolasses



Category: Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite
Genre: Canonical Disregarding of Female Characters, Clothing, Concerts, Feel-good, Fluff, Gender Inclusive, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Kissing, M/M, Not really though, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valentine's Day, mild drinking, more like, past angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceinmolasses/pseuds/silenceinmolasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to be a bother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mouth so Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I have written this a couple of years ago and finally decided to post this. I gotta confess, my uni life isn't easy at all and I miss reading Poppy Brite quite a lot. This is a visit, in a way. Have fun :)

_“Steve, yeah!”_

_Sacred Yew_ was more crowded than usually in _Lost Souls?_ concerts: androgynous teenagers with ripped silk across their throats and eyes dancing with boys whose chests were covered in crystals and girls who were sliding gloved hands across each other’s small shoulders and flat tummies. Red balloons sailed in silver smoke while sweet syrupy scent of Valentine’s Day cocktails painted Ghost’s words as he moaned into the microphone, earning crowds cheers and Steve’s growls in return. Steve trapped the thought at the back of his mind (the only one which wasn’t running around his guitar strings) and guessed they both had drunk too much. Yeah, today there were lots of discounts for Dixie beer and Ghost’s favorite wine which made his lips glisten wetly as his tongue rode the words. Yeah, the singer was doing those sweeeeet noises in his throat, his velvet vocal cords cutting tattooing ribbons on bodies where opens shirts didn’t cover. Now Steve didn’t feel that he didn’t have that magic stuff of Ghost’s: it was obvious what everyone were thinking in the way barely legal boys with bright lipstick grinded against students from other towns with leather coats and sweat slicked hair, the way the girls kept drinking those sickeningly sweet cherry and cranberry and vodka cocktails from colorful glasses, dancing next to the bar and flirting with tourists looking like exotic kitty slaves, glitter falling on them all together with heart confetti.

Valentine’s Day should suck. Should really really suck. But it didn’t. Yeah, far from it. Who’s Ann, after all? Steve head banged to the raw emotion his guitar was spitting to the glittering mirrors, dirty with dust of eye shadows and fingerprints. Kicked the wooden floor, his boots echoing the screams of the audience ready to change the melody because they have been playing the same one so long Ghost started to grunt instead of philosophizing he usually improvised. Dude, you are _so_ drunk!

The song Steve’s guitar started whimpering (soft rippling noises) wasn’t even on the list tonight but Ghost immediately picked it.

“A spider runs its legs down my back” he drawled out a confession; with each exhaled word, with each step he took, youngsters in rosy corsets and snow white cheeks crawled on barstools and the bar (Kinsey smiled tiredly); baby girls and baby boys and baby everybody else in skin tight jeans kissed one another in the middle of a dance floor; nipping generating into biting. Ghost leaned against Steve with his whole weight, his smell of molasses ten times stronger mixed with milky wine; pale blue eyes could barely stay open. Cheeks flushed more than red lipstick stains on the windows. Oh, right, Steve smirked like a madman, glancing down: yeah, the front of his partner’s in crime military trousers was sliiightly tilted. If you didn’t search for it, you wouldn’t notice. Steve was half hard too and (let him repeat himself) he didn’t have that mojo stuff which made hearts beat all night long. But he was feeling it, now wasn’t he. Thinking about it at all night long.

Ghost swung from side to side, slightly rocking his hips against Steve’s guitar. But, of course, if you didn’t search for it, you wouldn’t notice. Unless you were the first row (practically everyone, hah) which crossed the line and was too close to the scene. Hair cut obscenely and the roots colored with markers, clothes either too-big jackets or red hot pants. They were all smiling and chatting, sharing bottles of cider among themselves. And now Steve’s ears, which were drinking nectar of Ghost’s, caught the word which he tried to find all night already. What?

“Kiss!” a whisper like the wind from the couches by the wall hidden partially by the smoke from drunken and hungry eyes. Steve looked at the Ghost whose face was inches from his neck, murmuring something softly in the microphone. Somehow ( _of course_ ) it flew perfectly with Steve’s rough fingers jamming obscurely into the screeching strings. Yeah…

“Ghost. (Kiss!) A nice evening, isn’t it? (KISS!)”  
The fair head opened his eyes, soft lips like petals stretching into a smile, face contorted almost painfully. The tongue quickly went to wet the lower lip. Steve’s thumb brushed the guitar rom bottom to top and pressed his burning mouth against Ghost’s golden and gravel words, picking up another kind of rhythm of breathes and strawberry pressure, which was just as good. _Sacred Yew_ exploded in Steve’s head, light throwing the laughter and love-making crowd around like a heart which beat passionately against the midnight.


End file.
